Cleanup Crew
by Donofan
Summary: A little post-rollover story to kill time until the cliffhanger is resolved. We can't just leave him lying there, now can we? Rated M for my inability to keep from swearing.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: No matter how many wishbones I waste, the characters herein belong not to me but rather to the USA Network and/or Matt Nix.

He opened his eyes a slit as footsteps crunched over the shattered safety glass, squinting against the harsh light that didn't help the driving pain in his head. The thought that the black-booted Bible thief had come back to finish off the job gave him the strength to thrash his way farther out of the wrecked Escalade, but the struggle only lasted a few seconds before the increased wetness under his hand warned him to stop.

The footsteps slowed and stopped by his right side, revealing not a pair of combat boots but some rather grungy Adidas athletic shoes. Michael looked up, but the figure was only a dark shape against the sun's glare. Crouching down, the visitor silently assessed the scene, taking in the head laceration, the obvious gunshot wound, and the pool of blood spreading slowly out from Michael's left side. A hand reached in to the front pocket of a well-worn gray hoodie sweatshirt and removed a cell phone, punching in 911.

"There's been a car accident at..." a low voice started, but it stopped as Michael's bloody right hand latched onto the phone and shut it.

"No!" he gasped. "No police...no hospital." The few words were enough to sap the rest of his strength, and his hand fell back to the ground. He sensed the surprise and indecision emanating from the hooded figure and added, "Please...they'll find me if you call anyone. Just...get me up."

The person rose and stood looking down at him hesitatingly before coming to a decision. The hooded head scanned the area, looking for observers, and then a hand reached down to grab Michael's forearm to get him off the ground.

On his feet, Michael reviewed his condition and didn't like what he found. The two holes, front and back, were running freely, soaking his shirt and waistband, but he was more concerned about his head, which felt as though it was about to split open. He swayed, leaning on the shorter person beside him and fighting the nausea that rose up. This was not good.

He heard a sigh, and then his arm was pulled over the shoulder beside him. Like a pair of drunks, they stumbled toward a nearby parking area. The support helped him move, but without his hand providing pressure on the wound, the blood leaked out ever faster. Michael's vision greyed, and he found himself leaning harder and harder on the person as they approached a blue sedan. Propping him momentarily against the side of the car, the hooded figure thumbed a remote and then opened the rear door. Michael fell, rather than climbed into the back seat, gasping at the agony it elicted. His unknown assistant opened the driver door and came back with a towel and shirt, tucking one under his side and pressing the other against his chest to try to slow the blood loss.

The pressure on the ragged tears was too much, and the ex-spy's head fell back against the seat.

How often do you get to see a rollover happen right in front of you? Well, it was my lucky day. A sport utility (gas guzzler galore) came roaring around the corner and accelerated down the street toward me. I was just in the middle of my "What an asshole!" comment when it swerved suddenly and began a slow-motion tumble. (Right in my direction, of course. This was the last time I was going to drive outside my neighborhood to take a walk.) As it rolled over, I had hours to think about all the things I hadn't accomplished in my life, all the people I hadn't said I love you to, all the Ben and Jerry's flavors I hadn't tried yet... And then, boom!, it came to rest teetering on its roof just fifty yards away.

As I stood there with my jaw dragging on the ground, a hand reached out of the passenger side and a body followed, halfway.

Just like that, a pleasant walk spoiled. As I dithered, wondering what to do, another blacked-out Escalade screeched to a stop by the first one. Out hopped a guy dressed to match his ride, combat boots and all. It was starting to look like a Blackwater convention here. He walked calmly over to the accident scene, bent down and grabbed a suitcase, and then ...went to help? Nope. Called the authorities? Uh uh. Too busy scavenging, I guess. He sauntered back to the Caddy, and turning the beast around, sped back the way he'd come.

Well, that was cold. My hesitation over, I sprinted over as fast as I could (not as fast as 20 years ago, of course. A shame, that.), slowing down as I neared the wreck, which was now steaming and starting to smell a little...burny. I spared a moment's thought for all the exploding cars I'd seen over the years on TV shows, firmly reminding myself that cars rarely blew up in real life. I hoped.

It was not a pretty sight. The guy half out of the vehicle lay on a comfy bed of shattered safety glass and broken plastic, but worse was yet to come. Inside, I noticed as I bent to look, the driver hung from the steering wheel, his eyes staring blankly over the blood trickling from his nose and mouth. Ulp. That looked like a broken neck, in my amateur opinion.

As I approached, stepping gingerly over the leaking gasoline and glassy minefield, the passenger watched me, painfully squinting against the light. Or maybe because of the gash on his forehead. His rather nice dress shirt (more money than my whole summer wardrobe, for sure) was rapidly turning a nice Merlot color, a small puddle collecting under him. Was that...? Yes, definitely a gunshot wound, left shoulder. Hmm.

I could hear my mother's voice in my ear, saying, "Don't get involved, dear. It'll always end in heartache." Good ol' Mom. I flipped open my Nokia and hit 911 (the first time I had ever had occasion to dial it, so I have to admit it was pretty exciting).

The operator answered immediately, which was a relief. The smell of leaking fluids-both engine and body-was freaking me out. "Yeah, there's been a car accident at..." And that was all I managed to get out before a bloody hand reached up and shut the connection. Ewww, sticky phone!

"No! No police...no hospital." That was about all Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hemorrhaging could choke out, but his eyes reinforced his message loud and clear.

Now, I've seen enough crappy TV shows to know that a request like that means nothing good for anyone involved. In fact, this whole First Responder moment was feeling more and more like a bad episode of Starsky and Hutch (I dated myself there, didn't I?). Anyone hurt that badly who's willing to risk more pain has got to be either a prison escapee or someone else wanted equally badly by the law. In any case, this business was way out of my league. I hesitated (Who wouldn't? I'm not exactly a card-carrying Good Samaritan, you know) and then decided it couldn't hurt at least to get the guy on his feet. I checked to make sure no one else was watching and then reached down to pull him up out of his glassy, gassy nest on the asphalt. Jesus! He looked pretty average, but he weighed a ton, and I'm not exactly tiny.

On his feet, he was taller than I was by a few inches; it was hard to tell with him hunched over like that. As I was preparing to step away and run screaming from the accident scene, his knees buckled, and I decided I could postpone my flight for a couple of seconds. He managed to recover enough to stop weaving around, although his greenish tinge made me a little leery of getting within projectile range. It was obvious to me that-convict or no convict-he was going to need some help. And that meant me, I supposed.

I sighed at the inevitability, and pulling his right arm over my shoulders, I propped him up as best I could before turning toward my Civic (Midnight Blue Metallic) in the parking lot a block away.

Uff-da. I was a teensy bit out of shape to be hauling a dead weight like this for too long. A vision of Danny Glover's prophetic Lethal Weapon line, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit" floated through my mind, and I had to bite down on the urge to giggle hysterically. But then again, I've always had that response to stressful situations (funerals, break-ups...you get the idea).

We made it-barely. It's hard to say who was feeling more pain when we finally reached the car. I leaned my new friend against the car while I fumbled to unlock the doors, and then he pretty much collapsed into the bad seat. He groaned loudly. I echoed it, but not sympathetically: those blood stains were NEVER going to come out of light gray upholstery! I have to admit I stuffed his legs in the car a _leetle _harder than I had to, but come on, I'd never even sat in the back. It was pristine until that moment!

Luckily, I still had my gym bag in the front seat, so I grabbed it and packed a towel and spare t-shirt in around my passenger, front and back, to try to sop up some of the pints pouring out of him. Despite my tender efforts, his eyes rolled back in his head, and, mercifully, he passed out.

For a brief second, I contemplated doing the exact same thing. It was looking pretty good right about now. On the other hand, this guy seemed to think someone would be coming for him, so who was I to give in to a little fainting impulse?

Getting in the front, I paused a moment, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. My first instinct was to drive to the nearest emergency room and dump a bloody package on their doorstep. However, the thought of security cameras capturing my license plate didn't thrill me. There was really only one thing to do. I headed for home. I needed a beer; the sooner, the better.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the I Own Burn Notice and Its Characters party.

Chapter 2

Michael swam up toward consciousness several times, trying to penetrate the surface, but exhaustion dragged him back again. He was vaguely aware of sounds around him...birds calling, a lawnmower, the clinking of metal on metal...and he was fairly sure he felt a cool cloth on his forehead. Several times someone lifted his head have him drink through a straw, and that exercise was enough to flatten him out for hours. He woke once in the dark, thrashing painfully against some faceless dream assailant, and a quiet voice sent him back to sleep.

It was morning when he drifted awake again. Suddenly, he had the horrifying feeling that something was amiss Down There, even though he knew he hadn't been shot anywhere near That Area. He could feel a heavy weight on his lower abdomen that frankly, scared him. Visions of permanent damage There made his heart race. Finally, he screwed up the courage to raise his head...and met the unblinking stare of an extremely large black cat that was parked squarely on his crotch. As the stare-down continued, the cat narrowed its eyes to green slits and then busted out a purr that sounded as though a flock of pigeons was roosting on the dresser. Unfortunately, it also began kneading That Place with its razor sharp claws...and that's when he figured out he wasn't wearing anything under the sheet and blanket that covered him.

Incredibly relieved that he was still intact You Know Where, Michael took a moment to inspect his surroundings: off-white walls, a collection of Ikea-shabby furniture, a closed door, a window onto a sunny garden scene. To his right stood a desk covered with bloody towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and...was that a liter of Jack Daniels? His aborted attempt to sit up resulted in an involuntary moan as his chest and back muscles protested, which woke the person sleeping in the chair next to the head of the bed. The cat (or was it a small panther?) didn't budge, but it did increase the intensity of its purr.

Michael rolled his head to the right, taking in the sight of his rescuer. The woman slouched in the chair next to the bed looked like she'd been through the wringer. Her shirt was covered with blood stains, and her dark brown hair was plastered to one side of her head. She stared at him warily, waiting for him to speak, but a sudden massive yawn disrupted their staring contest.

Michael couldn't help yawning in response and then chuckled weakly."Looks like we could both use some more sleep," he said hoarsely. She gave him a nervous smile and then reached over to the bedside table to offer him a drink of water.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, as he gulped down the glass.

"I've been better," he responded. To be honest, he felt like he was one big bruise, except for the shooting pains front and back in his upper left quadrant. Reaching his hand up to his temple, he found a knot the size of a cherry that hurt like a sonofabitch.

"Sooooo..." the woman started, "um, you're going to have to see a professional, you know. I doubt a few out-of-date penicillin tablets are going to help, after what you've been through. I managed to get all the glass out of you, but I doubt you'll avoid infection."

It took Michael a minute to recall exactly what _had_ happened. The post-shooting chaos was almost a blur. He remembered being in the car with Barrett, grabbing the wheel, but after that...nothing. "How did I..." his voice trailed off as he gestured to the room.

"I, uh, was out walking when your car rolled over, and since it didn't look like that other guy was going to be much help, I brought you home."

"What 'other guy'?"

As she filled him in on his missing memories, he had flashes of recall. Who had taken the case with the Bible? It wouldn't have been Jessie or any of Barrett's men, because they would've still been tied up at the firefight on the key. It disturbed him that there was another unknown player involved. And he was stuck here without any way to start finding out who it was.

Michael stared at the woman, who looked like she was several years older than he was. "Thanks," he said simply.

"Hey, no problem," she said cheerfully. "Next time I'm shot and almost killed in a rollover, I'm sure you'll do the same for me."

"Sp, you're a doctor?" he asked.

"Nope."

"A nurse?"

"No again." He raised his eyebrows questioningly, so she gave him a wicked smile and let him off the hook: "I'm a high school English teacher."

Michael closed his eyes. He'd been patched up by someone who taught writing and literature! His headache intensified.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, his eyes still shut.

"Almost two days."

"Two days!" he yelped. His eyes flew open, and he tried to bolt out of bed. Inadvisable. The entry and exit wounds complained loudly, and he saw spots. The panther on his package took it all in stride, gleefully digging in its claws to hang on for the ride. "Shit!"

"Yeah, I bet you're a little stiff, huh? How 'bout another Vicodin to take the edge off? A chaser would probably help, too." She got up and removed the giant cat, which rowrrred in protest.

Ignoring the pill she held out, he said, "My cell. I need my cell phone." Fiona and Sam were out there somewhere wondering what had happened to him. If they'd followed procedure, they would've checked the safe houses and waited for his call, which never came. As far as they knew, he was with Barrett, who had a reputation for quick rendition flights and lethal information gathering methods. He hoped they hadn't told Ma yet that he was missing.

"You didn't have a cell on you," the woman responded, but you can borrow mine." She unlocked her smartphone and handed it over.

He placed the call.


End file.
